


Fixation

by MissNaya



Series: The Trouble With Instincts [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Animal Instincts, Clothing Kink, Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Puberty, Rimming, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: Jason's first heat hits him during a fight with Deathstroke. What a time to find out he's an omega.





	Fixation

**Author's Note:**

> sooo this is loosely based on a prompt I got on [tumblr,](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/post/159806023497/yes-i-know-the-numbering-system-will-look-dumb) though I sorta went in my own direction with it. first-time heats are my guilty pleasure. enjoy!

Jason can't remember how much time has passed since his heat started. He can hardly make sense of where he is, grounded only by the building he's leaning against. The building and that _smell,_ a faint pheromone-thick wisp clawing him forward like a pair of hands tangled in his shirt.

If he had to guess, he'd venture that it's been a full day. It was late like this when it first started, then little more than a cramp that was easy to ignore under the stress of fighting criminals all night. No, not _criminals_ — just one in particular, an assassin dressed in orange and black. _Like Halloween,_ Jason had thought.

He wasn't even supposed to be there for the fight. He'd been told to get Deathstroke's target to safety and retreat, and he'd completed his first objective just fine. But how could he turn tail and leave when he could hear gunshots in the distance, could see Bruce struggling on his own against a powerful foe?

So he'd tried to help. He couldn't do much but distract Deathstroke in the end, catch his attention long enough to allow himself and an injured Bruce to escape and regroup. At the time, he'd thought the bright colors of his costume and his witty quips were to blame.

Now, he's not so sure.

It wasn't until they'd gotten away and started speeding off in the Batmobile that Bruce, duty-bound as ever, had gotten a proper whiff of him. Jason, still so strung out on adrenaline and dazed from the scent of two alphas, barely understood Bruce was talking to _him_ when he'd explained he was in heat.

He remained oblivious all the way back to the Cave and then up to his room, where, showered and dressed in silk bedclothes, the full, crushing weight of his heat had hit him. His very first heat.

It's all a bit of a blur after that.

Jason can remember little other than sweating and panting and tossing and turning, burning with desire and surrounded on all sides by Bruce's scent. Even in his delirium, he knew Bruce wasn't someone he wanted to confront like this, but, god, there was nowhere in the manor or the Cave where he could escape that smell. Everything was all drenched with Bruce, Bruce the alpha, Bruce his _father._ He needed to get out.

And now, blearily navigating the streets of Gotham, another alpha's scent has overtaken him. If he could think straight, he might think it was better to be attracted to Slade than to any one of the less honorable crooks littering the city streets. But he can't, so all he can think of is how hot he is, how wet, and how, with every step he takes, he gets closer and closer to the source of that scent.

It comes to a head near the top floor of a building that looms over him. Jason can smell the path Slade takes to get inside, and he follows its twists and turns until, somehow, he finds himself inside.

Did he break in? He must have. Bruce taught him enough about that sort of thing that muscle memory could easily take over when picking a lock or re-wiring an alarm system. But Jason isn't nearly as intrigued by his own breaking and entering skills as he is by the overwhelming aroma of Slade all around him.

He curls up on a comfortable armchair, richer with Slade's scent than the rest of the place. He wonders faintly if Slade sleeps here instead of on the bed.

And then, exhausted, he drifts off.

* * *

 

“Kid.”

The voice startles him awake. He almost forgets where he is and why he's here, but when the heat starts to pool anew in his belly, he remembers. He doesn't even have time to regret what he's done before Slade's scent overpowers him all over again.

“ _Kid._ ”

The voice is so forceful that Jason's legs start to quiver. He sits up in his seat — _Slade's_ seat — and blinks until he can make out Slade's silhouette a few feet in front of him, by the door.

“You really don't want to be here like that.”

Jason doesn't reply. Running on instinct, he shakily forces himself around, until he's on his knees with his back facing Slade. He leans forward against the back of the armchair, then reaches back in an attempt to spread himself open. But, no, clothes, he has clothes on... Something rough, but short. And silk, pooling over his back. Robin's uniform? He can't believe he had the presence of mind to put it on before leaving the manor.

“H... hot,” he says, practically slumped against the back of the chair. It's all he can do to keep himself up on his knees, presenting like this. “'M hot.”

“I can see that.” Slade's voice is short, clipped, like he's a second away from doing... something. Jason isn't sure if that something is fucking or killing him, but at this point, he doesn't care either way. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Fourteen.”

“Would've thought someone your age would be able to handle themselves a little better.”

“F-first,” Jason mutters, face pressed up against the plush back of the chair.

He's a late bloomer. He knows it. Most boys present a couple of years younger than this. All of his classmates have already figured out what they are, leaving Jason in the dust. Up until last night, he'd been ready to accept the fact that he was just broken.

Then again, if his first instinct was to come find Deathstroke, of all people, maybe he _is_ irreparably messed up.

He hears something squeak behind him, something leathery, like gloved hands balling into fists. Then he hears Slade mutter, “Jesus _Christ._ ”

“Please,” Jason says, choking back a sob. Humiliation and arousal both bear down on him in equal amounts, squeezing the life out of him. “ _Please._ N-need you. Won't tell Batman. Please, please, please...”

“Alright, alright, _enough._ ”

Slade closes the distance between them in a few long strides, setting his hands on either side of Jason's waist. Jason tries to rock his hips back, but he's held firmly in place. Slade looks down at him for an impossibly long time, then clicks his tongue.

“Hell, you are _soaked._ Surprised no one got to you before me. You walk all the way over here in those little panties of yours?”

“Mhm.” Jason nods, wiggling his hips as much as he can.

Slade sucks in a long breath, then lets it out just as slowly. “Why me? Figure the Bat would be much happier if you found someone your own age to play with.”

“Strong,” Jason breathes before he can stop himself. “M-more than... kids in class. F-fought Batman— Won...”

Slade chuckles, and it pours over him like liquid. “More of a stalemate from where I was standing, but I'll take the compliment.” He runs his thumb just under the edge of Jason's panties, so _close_ to where he needs to be, but not quite there yet. “You really caught me off-guard back there. No wonder you smelled so good. New omegas always do.”

“W-would've won. If not for me.” Jason doesn't know why he's saying it, whether it's doubt in Batman or his hormones doing the talking, but he needs to believe he made the right choice in coming here. Needs to know, on the basest possible level, that he's found the most eligible alpha in Gotham.

“Yes, that's right,” Slade says, and Jason isn't sure if he's playing along or if he really believes it. “I'd have beaten him. And then you know what I'd have done?”

Jason hums.

“I'd have taken you. Right there. Right in front of him.” Slade's fingers dig into Jason's sides, his ass, and Jason sinks down even more, bending himself almost in half. “My pretty little prize. You'd have begged for my knot.”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Jason breathes, blinking back inexplicable tears. “Want it, Slade, want it so _bad,_ ungh...”

“It's really hit you hard, hasn't it?” Slade asks, running his fingers up and down Jason's side. “Almost makes me feel bad. Don't worry, though, I'll take care of you...”

And before Jason can even think about answering, Slade lifts him up and throws him over his shoulder. It's so brash, something a caveman would do, and any other time, Jason would be indignant. Now, though, he just whimpers, clutching the sheaths crisscrossing Slade's back for purchase. The promise of being _taken care of_ sets his nerves and instincts alight, further shutting down any opposition in his mind. He's with a proper alpha now. All he has to do is listen. This is what he was made to do, how he's supposed to be—

Getting dropped on his ass does wound his pride a bit, though. He yelps when he lands gracelessly on the bed, and for just half a second, he feels the familiar bubbling of rebellion inside. But then, when he looks up at Slade — sans mask, but still intimidating in the rest of his uniform — that resistance is quashed.

He doesn't realize he's gaping until Slade smirks.

“Poor little birdy. You know, I remember when your predecessor started having his first ruts,” he says. Slowly, methodically, he starts undoing the catches on his uniform. “Kid was insatiable. Still is, from what I hear. But he's an alpha. Our line of work has got to be much rougher for someone of your... orientation.”

Jason doesn't want to think about Dick. He doesn't want to think about how perfect he is in every way, and how absolutely opposite he himself is. He doesn't want to add another imperfection to his ever-growing list. _Robin, the Boy Wonder, new and improved version: rolls over for you whenever you want._

“Stop talking,” he huffs, lying back against the mattress. “Just fuck me.”

“Touchy, aren't you?” Piece by piece, Slade rids himself of his armor. By the time he's down to a pair of tented shorts, Jason has almost forgotten why he's upset. “I told you I'd take care of you, so just relax.”

That, Jason finds, is easier said than done. His heart is hammering in his chest, and not just because of his heat. Even minus all the armor and weapons, Slade is _big,_ much bigger than he is. Their size difference is exemplified even further when Slade crawls onto the bed, hovering over him. Jason realizes with absolute certainty that he's trapped. He's at Slade's mercy in every way.

He shudders. Reaching up, he places one hand onto Slade's scarred, enormous arm, and whines when he realizes he's still wearing his green gloves.

“Tell me what you need,” Slade says, voice low and gruff near Jason's ear. His facial hair scratches Jason's skin and sends goosebumps prickling up and down his arms.

“T-touch,” Jason tries. He licks his lips, swallows, and manages, “Wanna touch you. Too hot, Slade, 'm so hot...”

“I know, birdy, I know.”

One by one, Slade slides his gloves off, then undoes every catch on his vest. Jason lets himself get moved and manipulated, until the only thing left are his shorts and his mask. When Slade tries to take the latter off, Jason turns his head to the side and whines.

“I already know who you are, Jason,” Slade says, and Jason's eyes snap open. “I know a lot about you bats. Don't worry; I have no interest in spilling your secrets. Now, let me see that pretty face...”

Reluctant as he still is, Jason lets Slade peel away his domino. He's not in any position to argue. Besides, it was just another thing too hot and heavy against his skin. While Slade wipes away the last bits of adhesive with his thumb, Jason rocks his hips up.

“ _Please,_ I'm so wet...” Free to touch now, he runs his hands up Slade's chest, over his arms, tilting his face into Slade's palm. “Ungh. Don't you want me...?”

“More than you realize.” Slade rubs a thumb over Jason's lips, pressing it inside when they slip open. “If you were a little older, a little more experienced, I'd be knotting you by now. Don't think the big man would forgive me if I broke his new sidekick, though.”

Jason wants to insist he won't be broken, _can't_ be broken, but with Slade's thumb in his mouth, all he can do is lick and suck and moan. Slade's other hand, burning hot, trails over his chest, his stomach, fingertips hooking under the waistband of his shorts. He lifts his hips in anticipation, but Slade doesn't try to slide them off.

“Yeesh... Okay, turn over,” he says, pulling his thumb out of Jason's mouth. Jason pouts at the loss of contact, but pushes himself up on shaky arms and legs and does as he's told. Slade helps him through it, pulling him up by his waist so that his ass sticks up in the air. “There you go. Lemme see how soaked those panties are again. _Christ,_ can't believe the Bat didn't take you when he had the chance...”

“Stop,” Jason pants, head foggy, eyes practically glazed over. Every syllable is a struggle, every breath an ordeal. “No Batman. Mmn. Want you...”

Something about that must hit Slade hard, because he _growls_ in a way that strikes Jason to his very core. Suddenly, he feels Slade's tongue dragging over his shorts, lapping up the slick that's leaked through them. And _this,_ this is so close, so intimate, that it nearly does Jason in. He moans into his folded arms, cock throbbing in the confines of his shorts.

“Need your knot, _please,_ Slade, come _on...!_ ” he groans, practically sobbing.

He gets another growl in return, and then finally, _finally,_ Slade yanks his shorts down to just under his ass. He presses his face between Jason's cheeks, and the ensuing assault from his tongue is almost enough to make Jason come then and there. He's rough and he's firm and he's wet and _god,_ Jason never dreamed anything could feel as good as this, as Slade tongue-fucking him with the enthusiasm of an alpha half his age.

He loses track of time again, isn't sure if it's been minutes or hours when Slade finally pulls away, and he barely registers him saying “Deep breath” before he shoves two fingers knuckle-deep inside him.

Jason does not take a deep breath. He doesn't do much of anything but cry out into his arms, eyes wide, mouth agape. Slade doesn't wait for him to compose himself, spreading him wide with one hand while the other works his fingers in and out. And even through he's so wet that he's dripping, it's intense, the sudden feeling of fullness. A dull ache spreads over his lower body, and every thrust yanks a sound from his throat, but he doesn't fight back. Doesn't think he could if he tried.

Head hanging below his shoulders, he watches his cock bob with every thrust. It drips with slick and precum, and Jason wonders vaguely how much of a mess he's made on the bed, on the armchair (in the Batmobile, maybe). Behind himself, he can see Slade's cock, big and thick and uncut, so heavy that it hangs down a bit even though he's fully hard. He doesn't know how he's going to take any of it, let alone his knot, but when he tries to voice his worries, he finds he can't wrap his lips around the words.

He's so out of it that he doesn't realize Slade has added another finger until he curls all three of them downward against his prostate. His moans, already loud, increase in volume until he hurts his own ears, and he rocks back with every thrust, desperate for more of that feeling.

“The world's gonna hear you, kid,” Slade says in a low, gravelly voice that sends vibrations straight to Jason's cock. “Not that I'm complaining.”

Jason thinks irrationally that Bruce might hear, that he might come to stop this or fight or try to take Jason back for himself. Lust-addled and desperate, he mutters things over his arms that hardly sound like words, things like “knot” and “Slade” and “take.” He wants to trust Slade, wants to believe his alpha won't steer him wrong, but _god,_ he needs that knot, he needs to _come_ before Bruce finds him and shuts the whole thing down.

“Good _god,_ birdy, you're gonna be the death of me...” Slade says when Jason throws his hips back particularly hard. “You need to calm down before you make me hurt you.”

“ _Anything,_ ” Jason manages to get out. _I'll deal with anything if you just take me,_ he means, and he hopes Slade understands, because he can't find the presence of mind to say something so coherent.

The silence from Slade is oppressive, even though it lasts for only a few seconds. Jason, in a way he isn't even conscious of, can sense the last of his resolve crumbling. The pungent, unmistakable scent of a true rut fills his nostrils, hitting him hard.

“...'S gonna hurt,” Slade says, “for at least a little bit. You'll love it by the end, though. Trust me.”

Jason nods frantically, whiny little moans leaping to a crescendo.

Then Slade's fingers are gone, and something much, _much_ bigger presses inside.

He was right. It _does_ hurt. Jason yelps and claws at the bed with every inch that slides inside him. No amount of lubrication could have prepared him for the _stretch,_ the absolute size of an alpha's cock. He thinks for sure this must be what a knot feels like, but then Slade pulls out and slams back in, and he realizes he still has even more to look forward to.

For a brief moment, self-preservation overrides his heat, and he tries to scramble up the bed and away from the intrusion. But Slade growls, so predatory he almost doesn't sound human, and sinks his teeth into that sweet spot on the back of Jason's neck.

Jason's read about neck-biting in sex ed. In theory, he knows all about the biological function that effectively immobilizes omegas when employed correctly. But actually feeling it? That's something else entirely. It's as if his whole body goes limp, save for his legs and hips, which remain rigid enough to stay upright. Not that Slade's hands, almost bruising on his hips, would let him fall.

It's beyond intense, being unable to react while his body's being used. He can neither tense nor relax, forced to experience every sensation as it comes to him, from burning pain to gut-churning pleasure. And the longer it goes on, the more wonderful it gets. His cries of pain melt into howls of pleasure, almost deafening. He's so loud that all of Gotham must hear him now, must be crowded around this bed to watch, _come see the Boy Wonder get defaced by Deathstroke the Terminator._ He thinks that even people who don't see him will be able to tell, like he'll be marked with this experience until the end of time. And when he thinks of being so completely claimed, something in him relaxes, and he feels a thick, hard knot slide inside of him.

Slade stills, his teeth sinking even deeper into Jason's neck, and Jason shudders, twitches, lower body jerking so hard that he almost yanks out of Slade's grip. He loses his breath, realizes he's coming, shooting out long, thick strings of cum that splash down onto the mattress. He's never had an orgasm like this before, one that he doesn't even feel like an active participant in. It takes everything out of him, like all his energy is draining away with it.

When Slade finally releases his neck, Jason starts to pant, tremors overtaking his body. The last few waves of his orgasm hit him, milking Slade's cock with every pulse. He feels Slade twitch inside him, filling him up with an impossible amount of cum, every drop held in tight by his knot.

Just when Jason thinks he can't possibly take any more, Slade pulls him down onto his side, knot still stuck inside him. He lies there limp in Slade's arms, dully realizing Slade has begun to pet his hair, his face, his arm.

“Took that so well,” he mutters gruffly against Jason's neck. Jason can do nothing but suck down big lungfuls of air, so Slade fills the silence, giving him something aside from his own aching cock to focus on. “I've got you, little birdy. Got you right here with me. I know, I know. You did great.”

Jason isn't sure if it's the praise that does it, or if it's because he's getting praised by someone like _Deathstroke,_ but it centers him, pulls him down and tethers him there. Slade's callused hand keeps petting him, wiping away sweat. He lets his eyes slide shut, and listens to Slade talk to him until he falls asleep.

* * *

 

When he wakes up, they're still stuck together. Slade's stopped talking, but he's still dragging his knuckles over Jason's cheek, his neck, idle and repetitive.

Jason whines. Behind him, he hears Slade chuckle, feels his hot breath on the aching back of his neck.

“Shouldn't be too long now,” he says. “I've heard this is the worst part for new omegas, the waiting.”

“...Hn.” Jason rolls his tongue around in his mouth, trying out sounds. “Not... Can't be any worse'n... wanting... you.”

It comes out all chopped up, nowhere near what he wanted to say. He means to talk about how terrible it is to fixate so heavily on one person's scent, to lose time looking for them, to relinquish a whole part of yourself without ever actually wanting to. Jason's not sure if he'll ever get used to it.

He realizes how it comes off, though, when Slade's hand stops its movements.

“Cold,” he says, but he doesn't sound terribly put-off.

Jason can't help but feel a little bad. He doesn't have time to clarify, though, because Slade tugs his hips back, knot not entirely down, but small enough to pull out. He sits up, pulling Jason's limp form up with him.

“Here,” he says. “Let's get you cleaned up and back to the Bat.”

Then a heavy hand slams down on his neck and knocks him out.

* * *

 

By the time Bruce realizes Jason is gone, his scent has dissipated too much to pinpoint. That doesn't stop him from checking all of Jason's usual hangouts, searching for some sign, any sign that he hasn't gone out and gotten himself taken advantage of by someone he isn't ready to deal with.

Hours of searching turn up nothing but circular paths and dead ends. He returns to the Batmobile, ready to check in with Alfred again, when he sees something red, yellow, and green slumped up against the car.

Heart racing, he presses his fingers to Jason's neck before anything else. Once he finds a steady pulse thrumming under his skin, though, he's free to take in the full scope of his partner's state.

He reeks of sex and cheap bar soap. His lips are bruised, clothes in disarray. But what catches Bruce's eye above all else is the orange-and-black length of fabric wrapped around his neck, tied into a decorative little bow. Attached to one end is a notecard, with a message scribbled on it in rushed handwriting.

_Found a lost little bird in my apartment. Think it might be yours. Don't worry, I took good care of it._

_S. W._

Bruce crushes the note in his fist and, for the first time in years, reconsiders his no-killing rule.

 


End file.
